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Thursday, May 14, 2015

A bit of summer, pickled and preserved

“Nothing is ever
really lost to us as long as we remember it.”

― L.M.
Montgomery, The Story Girl

I am standing in
the vast courtyard lined with sun warmed brick tiles, the warmth seeping into
my bare feet. It is late evening and a gentle breeze tugs at my skirt, bringing
with it, the unmistakable scent of mango blossoms. I am flanked on all sides,
by my cousins and we are engrossed in an exciting game of ‘L O N D O N’ London.
My aunt, sitting on the wide granite steps leading to the courtyard, calls out asking
us to come in for our bath as dusk slowly pulls its dark, velvety cap over the
twilight sky. Her hands are busy stringing tiny fragrant jasmine buds, freshly
plucked from the thick jasmine bower, into pretty garlands. Later she will
weave small lengths of these into our plaits so that by bed time, our hair smells
of jasmine and mellow sunshine.

Kunjimalu, who
seems to us as ancient as the house itself, glides across the courtyard,
holding a tiny brass lamp in her gnarled fingers, to
be placed in the tiny triangular groove on the ‘tulasithara’*; a dainty ritual
of officially acknowledging the twilight hour. She stops next to us, smiling
her toothless smile holding aloft the lit lamp, a signal for us to freeze
midway though whatever we are doing and rattle off a few lines of prayer.

We rush off for
our bath. Warm water in huge brass urns and crisp, sundried, ironed clothes are
kept ready for each of us. We never bother to find out how these things
magically appear at the appointed hour, we have better, more important things
to do.

It is now when I
look at it though the eyes of an adult, that I often wonder at these ‘little’
things. Sumptuous meals punctuated with an incessant supply of snacks, which seemed
to appear like clockwork depending on the time of the day, request for ‘special’
dishes, which was always accommodated on the menu. Little treats for kids, like
chilled sweet lemonade or thick slices of tart raw mango, smothered with a mixture
of fiery red chilli powder salt and a dash of oil, available at a moment’s
notice.

Summer fun with the cousins!!

After bath, valliamma
(our grandmother) summons us for prayers and a ‘warding off the evil eye’
session. This session is presided over by ‘patti amma’, an in house soothsayer if
you will. She brings out a fistful of the ash grey ‘bhasmam’* and circles it over my head and the length of my
body, all the while chanting some strange incantations and blowing the ash with
a dramatic ‘psh-phooo’ on my face, leaving me coughing and spluttering and
pronounces me satisfactorily free of evil eye.

After dinner we
file into the bedroom, which is ironically called the 'poomukam’ (drawing
room) . The mattresses are already lined
across the length and breadth of the room . We slowly drift off to sleep amidst
giggles, whispers and snatches of horror stories.

Tomorrow looks
promising, with a swim session in the emerald green water of the kulam*, arrival
of more cousins, lovely poozhan a local river fish, spicy, crisp and fried to
perfection for lunch, as promised by the cook, and many more happy memories to
create.

I remember it
quite often, the days I have spent in my father’s ancestral home. The memories
come to me without any provocation or reason; like it were a live thing, with a
mind of its own. It is a kaleidoscope of colors, scents, textures and faces
rather than events.

It is a bit of the golden summer days of my child hood; pickled
and preserved, to be savoured when the world looks bleak and dark.

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As the name suggests this mommy tries out all things related to "being mommy" and lives to write about it at well. This blog is about the "spirit" of mother hood, the lighter side of parenting. online kiddie resources and much more... I would love to receive your comments and suggestions!!!!!

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"Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their body but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,which you cannot visit,not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you...
Kahlil Gibran-The Prophet